Blood On My Name
by Elesteria
Summary: During Altaïr's second visit to Jerusalem on his quest to gain back his status, Malik tends to his injuries.


_A/N:_ Written for the AO3 Auction, for blackbird_singing over on AO3. The first of two prompts that I received from her. This is set during Altaïr's second visit to Jerusalem, just after he's assassinated Majd Addin. Basically I no longer have any idea what I'm doing anymore.

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**Blood On My Name**

The bells tolling was the only warning Malik had that something was going on within Jerusalem's walls. He tapped his quill off into the ink-pot, looking out into the antechamber of the bureau, biting his bottom lip in contemplation. He suspected who was the cause of the alarm, but he couldn't be sure, not with all the missions being run through his city.

He glanced back down at the map he had been working on, checking over the freshly inked section he had been working on. He didn't see any flaws, so he saw fit to continue working. The bells, loud as they were, were common enough that they could be ignored with ease. He did though, keep his attention on the sounds around the bells, listening for anything that sounded like guards giving chase. He didn't have the patience for the guards of Jerusalem being led right to his door.

He traced over lines on his map, streets and alleys that he had painstakingly memorized. For a time, there was nothing but the map and himself, the sounds of the bells a distant clamor that he swayed in time with.

The soft sound of feet hitting the tiled floor in the antechamber made him look up. He didn't hear the clank of armor or shouts of anger, which meant the assassin hadn't been followed in. A good sign, if there was to be one to be had.

"Jerusalem needs a new leader." Was the only greeting that he received as Altaïr strutted into the room. There was blood seeping through his robes, from the looks of it, a mix of his own as well as his enemies. Malik ignored it, instead focusing on the only words Altaïr gave of his success. So Majd Addin was indeed dead.

"So I have heard." Malik responded, tilting his head in the direction of the doorway Altaïr had come through. The bells continued to ring in the distance, each toll a reminder that blood had been spilt. A warning that there was an enemy within the walls of Jerusalem, at least, an enemy to some.

"What's this? No words of wisdom for me? Surely I have failed in some spectacular fashion." Altaïr threw back at Malik, an edge to his words. Malik returned the words with a look of annoyance, laying his hand flat on the surface of the counter in front of him.

"You performed as an assassin should, no more, no less. That you expect praise for merely doing as told however, troubles me." Malik admitted, knowing that Altaïr would be less than pleased by the statement. It was true, to say anything of it. But then, most of what Altaïr did troubled him.

"It seems everything I do troubles you." The snapped response made Malik smile ruefully. So it seemed Altaïr knew of his opinions, not that he had tried to hide them, quite the opposite actually.

"Reflect on that. But do so on your way back to Masyaf. Your work here is done." Malik waved a dismissive hand towards the exit of the bureau. He looked down at the map that he had been working on, turning his attention away from the other assassin.

He listened as Altaïr left the room, but he didn't hear him climb up the wall and out of the bureau. He had expected Altaïr to leave as soon as he could, but then, Altaïr had spent the last few days traveling amongst Jerusalem and before that, traveling from Masyaf. He sighed, remembering the blood that had soaked into Altaïr's robes and how he wouldn't treat his injuries himself.

Come tomorrow, he would ride out with them still bleeding. He wasn't one to be limited by his body, or the injuries it sustained.

Malik pulled a bowl from underneath the counter, setting it on top, before reaching for a cloth and a small bag. He opened the bag, checking to see if there was still thread and his needle. He slipped the bag into the folds of his robe, before picking up the bowl and cloth to go fill with water.

He returned from the back room, heading to the antechamber with a sigh. Altaïr was sitting with his back to him and from the looks of it, had his head tilted back and gaze up to the sky. He didn't react to Malik's entrance, just remained stiff where he was sitting.

"Remove your robes," Malik ordered as he stepped into the room. The quick snap of Altaïr turning to face him showed that he hadn't expected Malik to come in. Maybe on Altaïr's first visit he wouldn't have, but his anger had since cooled into something more manageable.

"I will tend to your wounds," Malik lifted the bowl of water against the look of suspicion Altaïr was shooting him from under the edge of the cowl. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but only just so. "If I clean your injuries, you will be out of my bureau all the more quickly."

Altaïr nodded, accepting the words. It set Malik's stomach twisting, that their friendship had turned into this toxic thing. He had lost so much in Solomon's Temple and Altaïr had been one of those things. Altaïr shrugged out of his robes, his back once again to Malik.

He wasn't as injured as Malik had first suspected, the single cut across his arm the only one he could see. The cut he saw wasn't superficial, but Altaïr acted like it wasn't there at all. Malik knew better, knew that Altaïr was as human as the rest of them, even if he didn't want to be. He felt the bite of his injuries, just like anyone else, he just chose not to show that he felt it.

Malik lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs and setting the bowl of water beside himself. He plucked the cloth from the water, before nudging Altaïr's elbow. The other man turned his head to look at Malik, who had pursed his lips and was looking down at the cloth with distaste. He turned enough to take the cloth from Malik and wrung it over the bowl, before passing it back without a word.

Malik didn't thank him, just lifted the cloth to wash away the dried blood from Altaïr's arm. He was gentle as he washed out the cut, but he didn't miss the way Altaïr's muscles trembled under his touch when he went over it. He dropped the cloth into the bowl when he had wiped the blood away, checking over the straight cut.

He tugged the small bag out from his robes that he had tucked away, reaching around Altaïr to drop it in his lap. Altaïr didn't grab his wrist as many in their order would have, only picked up the bag and opened it. He didn't react to being so exposed, at having Malik at his back. It was disconcerting, a small change to the Altaïr who had first visited him since Solomon's Temple. That Altaïr had been poised, ready to strike, while this one lacked the claws, at least here.

"You'll need to string the needle for me," Malik watched Altaïr's fingers work over the bone needle, quickly tying off the string, as he dabbed at Altaïr's cut with the edge of his robe, removing the water. Altaïr held the strung needle over his shoulder wordlessly for him when he finished. Malik took it from his hand, judging the best way to stitch the cut. He set to work quickly, ignoring Altaïr's flinch as the needle slipped through skin. He frowned at the blood seeping from the cut, but he could still see his work, so he didn't pause to wipe it down again.

"If you pull your arm while I'm working, you'll only make this worse." Malik worked on the second stitch, the edges of the cut red and aggravated under his fingers. He let the needle hang, grabbing the cloth to dab up the blood running down Altaïr's arm. He dropped the cloth into the water, giving up trying to clean up the blood before he finished his stitches.

The hemp string was already sticky with blood as he reached for the needle, but he only continued with his work. There was no point in wasting anymore time. Altaïr flinched each time the needle poked through his skin, but he kept his arm still as Malik worked. The small hisses he released with each stitch was just another sign that he wasn't enjoying the process.

Three, four, five, six, seven. Malik counted off the stitches in his head, until he finished. The sutures were loose enough that the edges of the cut weren't pressed together, just close enough that it would heal as best it could. It would scar, of that, Malik was sure. He gave a hum as he tied off his work, pleased with it. He passed Altaïr the bloodied needle to hold while he wiped down the cut one final time. Water sluiced down his arm from the overly wet cloth, but he didn't say a word.

Malik plucked the needle from Altaïr's hand, dropping it into the bowl of water with the bloodied cloth, as he stood. He would need to wash everything, but it would not be the first time, nor would it be the last. He paused, watching Altaïr pull his robes back on and tug his hood back into place. He didn't turn, didn't look at Malik, only let his gaze fall back up to the sky through the lattice work.

"You didn't need to," Altaïr spoke softly, lacking his regular, arrogant tone. It was said in the same calm tone that Malik remembered from their childhood, the one that he had once used when helping Malik with his footwork, with the way he held a blade. His hand reached up, pressing over the area his cut was.

"No, I didn't have to, but I did choose to." Malik replied after a time, as he lifted the bowl from the ground. He allowed himself a moment to watch his unmoving brother, a moment to be in his company without them slinging insults and barbs at each other.

He turned and left the room, leaving Altaïr alone again and returned back to his perch behind the counter, back to his respective place.


End file.
